SuperWhoLock One Shots
by rebekah17
Summary: The title says it all; SuperWhoLock One Shots. The Doctor I write into my stories is Eleven unless otherwise stated. Continually a work in progress.
1. The Day The Machine Didn't Ding

"No, no.. that's ridiculous. It can't possibly be right."

"That is all I can think of, Doctor."

"Not everything on this planet is a torture device, Castiel. You've got to start making new friends."

The Doctor and Cas were both leaning on their elbows on John and Sherlock's kitchen counter, their heads in their hands, bums in the air. They were originally sent into the kitchen by John to find the cooking timer for a case they'd all been working on. However, mid-quest they had come across a different machine that they both found quite puzzling. Neither one of them had ever seen anything like it.

The Doctor poked at it. "What could this possibly be used for?" He gasped, eyes bulging out of his head. "What if it's been over used? What if all of it's uses have been used up?"

Castiel cocked his head like a puppy. "I don't understand. How is that possible?"

"Well," The Doctor leaned in, grinning like a five year. "I wouldn't necessarily think that it was but one time Amy and I were on the planet…"

"Who's Amy?"

"No, no no... You're supposed to wait until the end of the story for questions! Didn't any of your angel friends teach you that?" The Doctor stood up off his elbows and in doing so accidentally hit the curious machine, causing it to fall off the counter and make a horrible crashing sound.

The Doctor and Castiel exchanged worried glances. "Well." said The Doctor reassuringly. "At least we know it doesn't explode on impact."

"What the bloody hell was that?" John rounded the corner. "What are you doing with my electric mixer?"

The Doctor nudged the mixer aside with his toe. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing, in fact. Your kitchen machine seems completely useless. We couldn't get it to do anything. It didn't even ding."

Castiel furrowed his brow. "Why would it ding?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Because, you know… stuff."

John crossed his arms. "I should have known better than to send you two in here alone." He motioned towards a drawer by the oven. "The timer's in there. Grab it and let's go. Sam think's he found something."

Cas obediently grabbed the timer out of the drawer and went back out into the living room. John glanced down at the dead mixer before following him, muttering angrily under his breath. "How they even managed to knock it off the counter that hard is beyond me…"

From the next room came Sherlock's low, gravelly voice. "Perhaps The Doctor hit it with his mammoth chin."

Normally this would have bothered The Doctor and gotten an almost immediate retort, but it so happened that to his delight he had just come across John's oven mitts, which he proceeded to wear for the rest of the evening. He even tried to steal them the next day, claiming they were his new driving gloves for the Tardis.

John bought him his own pair that Christmas.


	2. The Day Sherlock Stopped Breathing

"Sherlock?" Dean steaded the beam of his flashlight as he carefully made his way through the disgusting tunnels of the Manhattan sewer system. Sherlock had been missing for over 12 hours at this point, abducted by what had turned out to be nothing but a homicidal maniac, on the run from not only the police but a section of the Russian mob (which The Doctor had found very distasteful). They had been able to locate the insane criminal quite easily, but Sherlock… that was a different story. Dean wiped sweat off his face as he turned yet another corner, the water reaching mid-calf height. "Great." He readjusted his flashlight, making his way down the next tunnel.

"Sherlock? You there?" He was about to round the next corner when he heard an indistinguishable noise followed by a splash from about twenty yards ahead. "Sherlock?" He picked his pace up to a run, spitting as some of the foul water splashed up into his face. As he reached the end of the tunnel he noticed a section of it was raised and split off the to the right. He hoisted himself up, flashlight in mouth, grateful that the water in this new area was only an inch or so high. He began to shine the light around the room, stopping on what appeared to be a tarp rolled up and tied in the corner. He felt something in his throat sink deep into his stomach.

"No, no, no no no…. " He ran over and pulled a knife out of his jacket pocket, furiously cutting away at the rope. There was obviously a body tied up in this mess, but he felt warmth, there was still warmth in there somewhere. He continued to wildly cut away at the ropes, ripping them off and peeling away the tarps by layer. Sure enough, underneath the mess he found the detective, gagged, bound and unconscious. "Come on, Man…" Dean frantically began checking his vitals, and to his horror discovered that Sherlock wasn't breathing. He cut the gag out of Sherlock's mouth and without thinking immediately began mouth to mouth resuscitation.

Two breaths.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Thirty compressions.

Nothing.

"No, no no no no…" Dean put his ear to the detective's mouth to find that he still wasn't breathing. He put his hands on Sherlock's chest and began another round of compressions. "Come on, you pretentious bastard. You can't die on me now…" He leaned in to do the next two rescue breaths, and to his relief Sherlock took in a deep gasp and went into a violent coughing fit.

Dean sat back, relieved. "It's about damn time."

Sherlock struggled to sit up, gasping for breath. His dark curly hair was glued to his forehead and there was blood and dirt splattered on his face. His left eye was black and his clothes were ripped and bloodied; he had obviously been tortured. Dean grabbed his knife and cut through the ropes binding the detective's hands together. They had been there for quite some time and his wrists were rubbed raw to the point of bleeding. As soon as his hands were cut free Sherlock frantically pushed past Dean, tripping over his own legs that were still too weak to support his body weight. Dean reached out to steady him. "Whoa, whoa, hold on…" but Sherlock desperately pushed him to the side.

"John!" He coughed, his words hoarse and catching in his throat. "They've got John!" His eyes were wild and bloodshot, and though he tried to move forward his knees failed him and he collapsed. Dean noticed that there were streaks through the dirt and blood caked on his face as though the detective had been crying at some point. For a moment, but if only a moment, Dean was speechless; he had never seen Sherlock like this, so undignified and out of control. "Please..." Sherlock choked. "John… they've got him…"

Dean grabbed the struggling detective by the shoulders and shook him hard, then steadying him so their faces were directly level with one another. "Sherlock, listen to me. John is fine."

"No, no… they've got…"

"Nobody's got him, Sherlock. He's with The Doctor, looking for you. He's worried sick, but fine. Okay? I don't know what that crazy asshole told you but John is just fine."

Sherlock stopped struggling. He made eye contact with Dean in a way that only Sherlock could; directly, almost venomously, frantically searching for answers.

Dean shook his head. "Do you understand what I'm saying? Sherlock?"

The Detective swayed backwards a bit, then stood up straight, the shock of John's safety knocking him into fully into reality. He lowered his eyes, his baritone voice still not completely back to it's full intensity. "He's safe?"

Dean nodded. "I swear."

Sherlock stood completely still for a moment, then reeled to the side as he turned around and began to violently dry heave up everything he hadn't eaten in the past 48 hours. When he was done he leaned against the wall, steadying himself, trying to catch his breath between intermittent raw coughs. Dean moved slowly towards him.

"So he told you somebody had John?"

"Obviously." The detective stayed facing the wall.

Dean's brow furrowed. "But… aren't you like, crazy psychic dude… calling people's bullshit? Isn't that your thing?"

"I was compromised."

Dean paused for a moment, taking this new side of Sherlock in. As he saw the detective grab one shaking hand to try and steady it with the other, he realized that for Sherlock, John was it. John was his Sam, his Cas, his Bobby... his everything. John humanized him, and from the brief moment of chaos he'd witnessed only seconds before he now knew with utmost certainty that without John Watson, there could be no Sherlock Holmes.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sure. Okay."

Sherlock turned around. "And I use the method of deductive reasoning. It has nothing to do with extrasensory perception. I highly suggest that next time you keep your ignorance to yourself." Sherlock pushed past him and began to walk towards the main tunnel.

Dean threw up his hands in disbelief. "Hey! How about you lose the attitude? I just saved your sorry ass. I did CPR on you, you ungrateful dick!"

Sherlock continued to walk towards the entrance. "Obviously. I'm not sure I'll ever be rid of the scent of cheap American aftershave."

Dean snorted. "Hey! It's not cheap, it's from Sears. And you should be thankful. I don't do dude on dude stuff for just anybody."

Sherlock paused, turning around, his eyebrow raised.

Dean could feel the stupidity of his previous statement burning in his cheeks. He tried to shrug it off. "But it wasn't, you know.. like, a gay thing."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes and turned back towards the main tunnel. He walked a few steps and then stopped, swallowing hard. "Dean?" There was a hesitancy in his voice, and it softer than usual.

Dean stopped, confused. "Yeah?"

Sherlock paused, choosing his words. "Do you think that perhaps, do you think that you could possibly keep between us…"

Dean nodded, cutting him off. "Don't worry about it."

Sherlock said nothing, but quickly met Dean's eyes with a grateful nod.

Dean cleared his throat and slapped Sherlock on the back, starting again towards the main tunnel. "Come on, Shirly. Let's go. I'm starved. I need some pie. We can get you some coffee to stare at." And for once, the detective kept his smart retort about Dean's parental issues to himself, following the bowlegged Winchester down the revolting sewer tunnel towards sunlight.


	3. The Day Dean Got A New Hero

"I'll have the chicken caesar salad, no onions." Sam closed his menu, and the waitress turned to The Doctor.

The Doctor followed suit, grinning at the waitress. "I'll have what he's having, so long as the chicken is no longer alive when you bring it to me. That happened to me once. Bit of a nasty shock, for me and the chicken."

The waitress laughed because she wasn't sure how else to respond. She turned to Dean, her smile becoming a bit more than friendly. "And for you?"

Dean noticed, stretching out over his side of the booth "Apparently I'll be the only one of us eating like a man tonight. I'll have the double cheeseburger, hold the lettuce, with a side of fries and a slice of pie."

Sam rolled his eyes. The waitress grinned, biting her lip. "What kind of pie would you like?"

Dean winked at her. "How about your favorite."

Sam groaned and put his head in his hands. The waitress practically purred as she took Dean's menu and walked away, making sure to swing her hips a little extra.

Dean grinned, pleased with himself. "My cheeseburger's not the only thing in here that's double stacked, am I right?!"

"You know, I invented pie."

Dean turned turned to the Doctor. "What?"

"It was an accident. I was in Egypt right around the year 1290 and was stopping by to meet the Pharoh's new cat. I could never keep them straight, really - he always had a new cat. Anyway, I got hungry while I was there and wanted a honey and fruit sandwich but there was only raw dough and no bread, so I improvised and Ta da! Pie! Unfortunately it only turned out okay but I suppose you really never know what you're doing on the first try, do you?" He smiled proudly.

Dean paused, a look of shock and confusion on his face. "Wait, so you're telling me you invented pie?!"

Sam laughed. "Move over Batman; I think Dean's just found a new hero."


End file.
